“Good mawnin’, Judge Wilson,” he said.

“Uh-ah, good mawnin’, James,” replied the judge.  “Uh-ah, Doctah Gregg li’l late this mawnin’, eh?”

“Yessah, seems like,” said the driver, his head again falling.

In perhaps five or ten minutes, perhaps half an hour, there would be heard the tapping of another cane, and Dr. Gregg, also tall, not quite so portly, and wearing a white beaver instead of a soft Panama, would appear from the opening of yet another side street tributary to the car.

“Good mawnin’, James,” said the doctor as he passed; and the driver answered respectfully.

“Good mornin’, Doctah.  You li’l late this mornin’, seems like.”

“Well, yessah, I may be a leetle late, just a leetle.—­Good mawnin’, Judge; how are you this mawnin’, sah?”

“Very well, Doctah, sah, thank you, sah.  Step in an’ seddown.  Right wahm, this mawnin’.  Uh-ah!”

So the judge and the doctor sat down in the car, and conversed, easily and in no haste, perhaps for five or ten minutes, perhaps for half an hour.  Now and then the driver cast a glance out of the side of his eye over toward the lion-headed gates, but no one was uneasy or anxious.  The mules were to apparent view very sad and still, yet really very happy within their souls.

“Young lady li’l late this mawnin’, seems like,” remarked the Judge.

“Oh, yes, but she’ll be ’long direckly, I reckon,” replied the doctor.  “You know how ’bout these young folks.  They don’t always realize the impohtance o’ pressin’ business mattehs.  But we must fo’give heh.  Judge, we must fo’give heh, foh she suhtinly is well wo’th waitin’ foh; yes indeed.”

“Uh-ah! quite right, Doctah, quite right!  Fine young lady, fine young lady.  Old stock, yes indeed!  Beechams o’ Fehginny.  Too bad Cousin Sarann Clayton keeps heh so close like.  She fitten to be received, sah, to be received!”

“Yes, indeed,” assented the doctor.  “Yes, sah.  Now, ain’t that the young lady a-comin’ down the walk?”

Judge and doctor and driver now turned their gaze beyond the lion-headed gateway to the winding walk that passed among the trees up to the old mansion house.  Far off, through the great columns of the trees, there might indeed this morning now be seen the flutter of a gown of white.  The faint sound of voices might be heard.  Mary Ellen, conscientious marketer, was discussing joints and salads with her aunt.  And then Mary Ellen, deliberately tying the strings of her bonnet under her chin, turned, answering her aunt’s summons for replevin of a forgotten fan.  Then, slowly, calmly, the gown of white became more distinct as she came nearer, her tall figure composing well with the setting of this scene.  For her patiently waited the judge and the doctor and the driver.

“Good mawnin’, Miss Beecham,” said the driver as she passed, touching his hat and infusing more stiffness to his spine.